


Theater and Other Works

by brokenAmphora



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, drunk drabbles, one shots, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenAmphora/pseuds/brokenAmphora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of my drunk drabbles about Cronus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When you died it was like checking out of real life for just a moment and walking in to the world's most tragic and twisted horror show. Your tickets were pre-ordered by someone you didn't even know until you met them at the booth and they handed you your free tickets before you could even whip out your wallet and pay with life experience.

He was dressed plainly and he was tall, like those skeletons you see at Hallows Eve parties. But not quite. Bare bones were wrapped in broken promises, flashbacks, and memories with a hue so uncertain you'd swear you died on a hit.

But when you died, you were shot in the chest. So why do you feel like you know this place? Why is it so familiar? Why do you know that the carpet is going to be violet heritage and yellow ribbons and tyrian star bursts? Why, when you sit in the theater seats, did you know that they would be carved, textured, and shaved with the knives kept in the ticket master's office, and adorned with mastered needlework precise enough to leave tingles in your spine as you watch your life on the silver screen, laughing, raging, and fading?

You feel like you need to leave. This is a ruse for you to die in, alone, never to escape, but you frantically search for reasoning to save you from impulse. Somehow you know you were meant to die and come here and trace your fingers over every intricate design on the walls, the carpet, the statues in the halls, play every game in every little nook and cranny of the theater, and memorize every curve because somehow, you know this is you. This is just your life in a tesseract, and you laugh and cry and scream and jump for joy because never have you imagined your life like this. Never have you genuinely seen your life as something so magical and unique and precious that you treasured every moment and carved it into your psyche. Never did you think such beauty would be preserved, or be more beautiful just by its' preservation.

And never did you suspect that you would love yourself, more than ever before, by having seen it through a stranger apparent's eyes.


	2. Delicious Daze

He longs for love in ways and whys that make you tilt your head. Rules are vague but not absent, a deal with zeal and bloody signature so comfortable he wonders at his morals. The fire may disappear but the coals are always glowing, and he can shoot at the target and never run from the bullet holes. The wounds are his promise, his dedication, his confession of love for you is as true as the heading of a spaceship destined for the future.

He crawls for dear life to you, clinging and longing for love in life long lasting. Nothing as sweet as this could touch his craving, and still he makes his bed here, lets the roots bury themselves in your heart and vines decorate your arms, claims you as his own and worships the body that gives him this life, this energy to love so deeply.

He's not laughing with you, though the smile on your face brings him unimaginable joy. He's in awe. In gracious, grateful awe at your presence here with him, and if he could capture this moment it would be in a shell of the most vibrant colors and intricate textures.

He's so predictable and yet unimaginable. You see the chills run down his spine and know he's in love, crying for love to conquer the day. Waiting for love to fill his temple.

He knows you're restless, you're longing for love, you're longing for something he could give. You don't give in at first because why would you give into something seeming so desperate? It takes time and understanding but you discover he's not desperate for a void to fill, he's desperate for a hole to complete. He gives you reasons, promises, choices, time lines and trials of affection and holds his lust at bay for your sake.

He is the sweet, rare lie born of space and time and surrealistic tongues. Dreams build a life for him and leave equal room for you, depths uncharted, but tools always available to draw the lines.

He is worth the sacrifice, worth the sunrise and sunset, worth the end and beginning.


	3. Into The Night

Like a gift from the heavens, it was easy to tell,  
It was love from above, that could save me from hell

Like a piece to the puzzle that falls into place,  
You could tell how we felt from the look on our faces

And we danced on into the night

\--------------

For a while, Cronus had been lost. Lost to a cause he knew not the origins of, not when it started, and for the longest time, not when it would end. He was lost to ridicule, to time, to space, to the withering pedals of the hope that once blossomed out of each failure he ever had in his life. All it takes is one instance to send him spiraling and he would hit rock bottom with a nauseating crunch, all resolve shattered and all inspiration and life draining from his soul.

Muses and friends would come and go, promising to stay but never staying for long, leaving when the going got too rough for them and Cronus would watch as he was left in the desert for the umpteenth time because no muse could handle him.

Was it him? He wondered this through life and death, perused every possibility,, searching for some meaning to their departure, though no reason had surfaced among the riddles left in the dust for Cronus to find while the muses danced away and friends ran for dear life.

This would bring him to a chasm of despair and loneliness wherever he walked and the big black was endless. There was never a map and yet everyone he'd ever met had told him it was obvious where the exit sign was, the exit sign he could never find. He was certain for sweeps that he would never find it and remain forever lost in loneliness, intrusive thoughts, and mental decay.

And then, he found his guardians. The ones that had told him none of this was his doing, none of this was his fault, that he had a right to exist as much as the others who had doubted and abandoned him. The first had comforted him when he asked for their advice getting through the big black with medication; the second, when he was locked away for running from his problems, for trying to end everything through an overdose; the third, when he called for justice, and he was told he was allowed to fight back.

He didn't fight so much as he gracefully destroyed. Any trace of self-blame, of doubt, of inner destruction, was nowhere to be found. He heard what he needed to hear, and all that was left to do was dance his pain, anger, and sorrow away. This is no metaphor; art in any form helped him express himself, and his greatest expression of freedom was dance. It helped him to expel any negativity through movement and music.

Cronus liked to dance in many places during his life time, but one of his favorites was the desert. It seemed a fitting place for his current situation. After all, he's dead, he has nowhere else to go in life. But here, in death, he can embrace his predicament by releasing himself of all negativity and fear. It was here, in this artificial dream bubble version of his desert that he decided to bring his multi-function radio and CD player, and look up to the night sky as if it were the actual thing. He gazed upon the twinkling stars lovingly, counting the constellations his old muses ran to.

He took off his boots, turned on the CD player function, skipping to a specific song; and he began to dance.

He didn't care that anyone could walk into his dream bubble at any time, he didn't care that he looked as if he was meshing flamenco and ballet and whatever else he felt was the right movement for expression; he cared only that it was his choice, his movement, his right to be as he chooses without fear of ridicule. He cared about his freedom. He cared about celebrating it. For this moment, he was his own muse.

Cronus's feet barely made sound on the sandy flats amongst animal skulls and carrion birds and dead trees. Storm clouds obscured the mountaintops in the distance and still he was not deterred from dancing. He made a home out of the desert and death he was left in, and he would fight with every ripple of his muscles, every strain of his tendons, every bone in his body, to keep his home. He would not run away. Each flip of his hair and flick of his wrists cast away negativity as he danced, free of his chains at last. He danced for hours to the same song, paying no mind to the passage of time. No worry plagued his mind, only the fire of his soul and winds of change.

When he was certain he had danced his heart's content, he looked to the skies, where his muses had fled. He bid them a belated farewell. He was his own muse now, and he would never run from himself. Not even in the darkest of hours.

He turned the CD player off and brushed off his feet, slipping his socks and boots back on. A content sigh departed through a smile he hadn't had in ages. The kind of smile you couldn't wipe off your face even if you tried.

He walked back to the edge of the dream bubble, sure that he would be visiting this place more often, no matter if he was discovered. Perhaps, in time, some others may be found here, and share their freedoms with him. Now more than ever, he was stronger and more willing to spread his happiness and hope.


End file.
